


Concupiscence

by sameboots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, a non-zero amount of sex magic, also kind of a fairytale?, because curses!, but they have to fuck, it's up to you to decide if i got anywhere near there, parts of this are meant to be humor, set in mostly an ASOS alternate universe, they're on the road trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: concupiscencecon·cu·pis·cence | \ kän-ˈkyü-pə-sən(t)s, kən-\Definition of concupiscence: strong desire especially : sexual desire.A fairytale, of sorts. In which witches have extensive (sextensive?) powers, knights aren’t quite Prince Charmings in disguise, and maidens aren’t always so fair of face. Oh, also, there’s a lot of sex.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 87
Kudos: 347





	Concupiscence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brynnmck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/gifts), [slipsthrufingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/gifts), [robotsdance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotsdance/gifts).



> I know this is not an update to any of my WIPs, but I wrote this as a gift for two friends. It fought me a bit, but here it is! 
> 
> As a warning, this contains a fair bit of consent for fuck-or-die, but there is. as always, an inherent consent issue in that it's either fucking or dying (as it says on the label). 
> 
> Thank you endless to bethanyactually for the beta and to slipsthrufingers for fixing this with one or two suggestions when I was floundering. 
> 
> And of course a thanks to everyone that has dealt with me yelling about this.

**Part One: A Cock in Hand is Worth More than None in the Bush**

_Once Upon a Time there was a knight so handsome that men and women alike nearly wept at the mere sight of him. Any commander would have been proud to have him in his Army, and any fair maiden would have blissfully wed him and borne his heirs._

_However, the knight had no interest in either of these pursuits. For he had two priorities: protect his King and love his sister._

_But all dreams come with a price, one the knight came to know better than many._

_Perhaps, better than any._

—

Jaime comforted himself with the idea that the sorceress didn’t know the consequences of her spell when she first cast it. If he didn’t believe that, then the urge to murder her and his father eclipsed all reason. 

Twyin, of course, imagined it as a way to force him into marriage. He knew Jaime’s sense of honor well enough to know that he wouldn’t break his vows to the Kingsguard to dishonor some servant girl, or even more unlikely, visit a brothel to _slake his thirst_. What Tywin did not know was that _Cersei_ knew well enough how to obtain moon tea, and that he would sire bastards on her whenever she asked. 

It was a lovely arrangement for nearly twenty years. 

Then wars and intrigue and pissing contests over who deserved the Kingdom more resulted in him being rather _confined_ when the curse-clock began ticking ominously whilst he was chained to the most obstinate, dull, hideous excuse for a woman he’d ever met. 

If only he could hold on just a _bit_ longer. He was nearly to Cersei. Cersei would help. Cersei would soothe the searing ache in the pit of his stomach before it burnt him to cinders.

If only he could get to her. 

He could nearly taste her on his tongue, the memory of her cunt holding him within her so palpable he nearly embarrassed himself in front of _Brienne of Tarth_. A more dire fate, he could not imagine. That the wench seemed insistent on making herself as poor company as possible helped nothing. Indeed, if anything, it made his situation all the worse. He couldn’t even pretend that his situation was due to being constantly in the presence of a woman after weeks tied to a post covered in his own shit. She could barely be considered a woman. If not for the delicate, startling blue eyes and _barest_ hint of a waist and breasts, he would doubt it in truth. He at least garnered some brief amusement from pretending otherwise. Amusement was harder and harder to come by as the itching need seemed to crawl along every inch of his skin.

\--

It took nearly three days for the wench to realize something was amiss. 

She drew to a stop and Jaime nearly collapsed with relief. Every step was painful, desire cramping every muscle in his body, every bit of his skin oversensitized from the abrasion of the rags he still wore. He’d never had cause to test the extent of the curse and how painful it would become before it thankfully took him to meet the Stranger; Cersei had always seen fit to relieve him of his affliction early. Sometimes, Jaime wasn’t even aware the cycle had begun again, so charitable was his sister.

He collapsed into a seated position, barely resisting the urge to lie down on the forest floor, branches and stones be damned. 

“What ails you?” 

He opened his eyes to squint up at the homely, scowling face above him. She was not improved by the shadow concealing part of her face. Though, the sun did turn her straw-colored hair into an almost lovely pale silver. 

He glared before saying, “Where should I begin? The layer of mud and shit still caked on me? The cuffs that have left me without skin on my wrists? Being nearly starved by your beloved Starks?”

Her eyebrows were so furrowed by the last question that he was half-certain they would stick that way. He hadn’t seen such disapproval on a face since he last spoke with his father. 

“If this is an attempt to trick me into uncuffing you, then you have gravely underestimated my intelligence.”

“So you merely look stupid,” he drawled easily.

He grunted when she jerked him to his feet by the rope tied to his chains, barely making a noise of exertion. There was no good reason to find the action worthy of any particular _attention_ , and yet the feeling of oh-so-brief weightlessness before his sore body once more had to stand on its own power was not … without note. If that note sang down his spine like arousal, well, he’d been long without his sister and he couldn’t reasonably be blamed for the reaction of his body to both that and the curse. 

“Come,” she said, jerking once more on the rope to pull him along behind her. 

It was a shame she did not yet know of the curse; a jape twisted his tongue, it wanted to be spoken so badly. Though only the gods knew if she would even understand the hilarity of her command if she knew of his condition.

\--

The level of pain he was able to feel without obvious injury should not have surprised him, and yet. As the days passed, every step began to feel like walking on hot coals after slicing his feet open on shards of glass, but even that paled in comparison to the miserable pounding behind his eyes that rendered his vision all but moot. It was nearly impossible to tolerate the bright sunlight when they were not covered by a canopy of trees. 

It only took a sennight before his muscles began to fail him. It didn’t even take a root to bring him to his knees. He was so palpably exhausted, he just wanted to stay there, lie down and sleep until he was no longer exhausted -- or until he died, he wasn’t all that particular. 

“Up, Kingslayer,” she ground out between her teeth. “I’ve no time for your games today.” He opened his mouth to parry her jab, but the words creaked out of him, sounding more like an unoiled hinge than human speech. She jerked again, and he moaned in pain at the ache in his joints. He imagined he could hear the shift in her expression even though he wasn’t watching. 

“I’ll ask you again: what ails you?” she asked, a strange note to her query he didn’t fully understand. 

He slowly looked up at her. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

“Tell me,” she insisted, her jaw set mulishly. 

“My father had me cursed,” he said bitterly, the words like bile on his tongue. “He was not pleased that I joined the Kingsguard and left him with my younger brother as an heir.”

“And how would _cursing_ you be the solution?”

“Because if I do not attempt to get a woman with child every nine moons, I die.”

The wench’s face turned a brilliant shade of puce at his words, anger blotching the skin above the collar of her armor. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Why would I lie?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “To fuck you?” He snorted. “I would nearly rather die than that.”

She stared at him, her face twisting and tensing in a series of deeply unattractive expressions before she settled on a tight-lipped half-disbelief. 

“Even if that were true,” she said. “Can you not simply…”

She lifted her eyebrows, and he laughed despite how his chest ached. It wasn’t even a caustic sound anymore. He found it genuinely amusing watching the poor thing attempt to ask him what she was thinking. 

“Why do I not simply stroke my own cock?” It was a disappointment she didn’t react more dramatically to his question. She merely nodded her head in one brief downward motion. “Believe me, I’ve tried in the past. It does nothing but make matters worse. I can only assume my father specified that the curse punish me for attempting to circumvent its purpose.” 

“What if someone else were to--to--”

“Yes?” he asked, unable to keep the insolent smirk from his lips. 

She glared even harder, but her jaw firmed with determination. “What if someone else were to stroke your cock?” The final words were spoken faster than the preceding ones, but she did well enough at sounding as if she’d ever spoken such a thing aloud.

“Are you offering?” He was so desperate that even the thought of Brienne’s brutish hand had him half-hard in his breeches; so desperate that even the thought of breaking his vows to his sweet sister faded to nothingness.

That she didn’t immediately spit venomous denial at him laid waste to the half. The longer she was silent, just staring at him, the closer he came to begging. 

“You will die?” she asked, her voice quiet and nearly timid. “Not merely be in pain, but die?”

The need pounded within him like a herd of galloping horses. “Yes. A point that was rather belabored by my father and confirmed by the sorceress.” 

More aching silence, until finally, “Very well.” 

He barely managed to say _very_ before the wench was knelt before him. For the first time, as her eyes landed on the front of his breeches, he recognized fear in her eyes. It settled like sour milk. The last thing he wanted was for her to be forced into this; he knew if not for the curse, he wouldn’t even have a cockstand. 

“I swore to Lady Catelyn to see you to King’s Landing.” She met his gaze, a steely resolve shielding the vulnerability just beneath the surface. 

He wasn’t certain what she meant until her shaking hand was at the ties of his breeches. She fumbled, her hands trembling when they brushed his cock. Though he was hardly one to judge; he trembled too. 

She hesitated, gripping the worn wool in her hands, and said, “You will never tell anyone that--”

“As if I would,” he said, attempting and failing at flippancy. 

She reached inside his trousers and gripped his cock with all the delicacy he would expect from her broad, coarse hands. He hissed a breath through his teeth, flinching at the vise around his painfully erect flesh. _Fuck_. “If you move--” he panted “--you’re like to pull it from my body. I’ll die from blood loss before the curse could kill me.”

“What are you--”

“A looser grip, if you please,” he gritted through clenched teeth. Blessedly, she listened without argument, but the slack hold she eased to wasn’t enough to make even the greenest of boys come. “I thought you were trained at swordplay.” 

She jerked her hand away as if burned, but then seemed to remember her oath to her Lady, and hestitantly touched him once more. 

“You’ll excuse that I’ve only wielded actual weaponry,” she said acerbically. 

He laughed softly, achingly. “You would be surprised at how easily a man’s sword can lay waste to men and women alike.” She squeezed in irritation. “Gods, fine, if you’re going to strangle it as you wish to do my neck,” he wrapped his own hand around hers, difficult though it was with them bound still,“I suppose I’ve no choice but to train you.”

He felt her fingers twitch at the first stroke. He would have teased her again, if not for the fact that he was near to weeping with the relief of someone else’s touch after so many months without. It would not have mattered if it was the Stranger’s hand; Jaime would never admit that there was something about her rough grip that woke a part of his soul he’d never known. 

She was a quick study, or that’s what he told himself when he spilled over their joined hands in a mortifyingly short amount of time, his own slack as hers took over the bulk of the work. She pulled away quickly, and he could hear her wiping her hand violently in the grass before scrubbing it over his breeches. He chuckled, the idea of her frantically wiping his own come on him somehow amusing in the glowing weightlessness that always filled him after the crisis. 

She stood and tugged on the rope. “Up.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a moment,” he said, finally opening his eyes to find her flushed an intriguing shade of pink right on the apples of her cheeks, her bottom lip rather red and swollen, as if she’d been biting it. “My legs have no more strength than a newborn colt’s.”

Indecision wrinkled her brow before she said, “Then you feel better?”

“I feel a different sort of near-death at least,” he said, snorting when her expression shifted to one of concern. “I assure you, it’s a much more pleasant shade of death.”

She looked so confused that for a brief moment he wanted nothing more than to show her exactly what he meant. 

He had truly been without Cersei for too long. 

\--

**Part Two: An Enemy in Need Needs a Friend Indeed**

**__** _The honorable Maiden tried to save the Knight from the terrible curse. He did all he could to conceal his condition from her, so determined was he to appear unbreakable. Perhaps some noble piece of his soul wanted to protect her delicate sensibilities. More likely, he did not want to expose his greatest vulnerability._

_Though, in the end, every piece of armor has a weak point, a vulnerability that will show itself eventually, and a man can only hope it’s off the battlefield._

Sadly, for him, it turned out her hand upon him had diminishing returns. He felt the relief of being in pain only caused by his arms being held in a bound position for three days. Then for two days. And then for no more than a few hours. It was a shame, really, he’d become rather accustomed to her no-nonsense, efficient stroking. Perhaps even strangely fond of it. 

He stared at the canopy of trees when the exhaustion flooded him once again, contemplating his own demise, the indignity of death-by-lack-of-fucking. It was truly a shame; he thought he’d at least die in battle. That was something worthy of _some_ respect.

“It was a valiant effort,” he said, not pleased with how despondent he sounded. “Not even Lady Stark could possibly censure you.” 

“I _promised_.”

She was the most stubborn person he’d _ever_ met. 

“Apparently, there is but one solution to the problem,” he said. “I will resign myself to my fate in time, or not, and either way I will be dead and quite past the point of caring. I only ask that you lie about the how and why of my death. It would be a shame if the people knew I was felled by my own cock.”

There was silence--it was almost peaceful. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to die away from the battlefield. He was only startled by the clanking of a sword belt being undone. He peeked one eye open to see the wench setting her sword on the ground. It was of no note, she should be comfortable as he slowly died. He wouldn’t begrudge her that one luxury. She wouldn’t weep for him, but he thought she was the sort to respect his journey to meet the Stranger, and that was a comfort. 

However, the noisy sound of her removing armor was worthy of note. He opened his eyes to find her down to tunic and breeches, but it was when her hands went to the ties of her breeches that his heart, and cock, took very pointed attention. 

“What are you--”

“I am fulfilling my duty,” she _groused_ , shoving her breeches to the ground. 

Without preamble, she straddled his legs and went to work on his own laces. He tried to shift away from her, ignoring the ache of his cock, and the bone-deep desire to be _inside_ , to come and ease this godsdamned curse. “You don’t have to do this.”

She loosened her grip. “If you didn’t want to fuck me,” her tongue tripped on the word fuck, as if she was unused to saying it, at least in the context of herself, “you could have said. You need not make it about my virtue.”

Truly, she was so aggravating… “Is that what I said?” 

“I’ve never met a man so determined to avoid fucking a woman. When the choice is between fucking me and death, I thought I would be preferable. I see I was mistaken.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He pulled his hands from her slack hold, bringing them down and between her legs before she could move away. The wiry curls of her bush brushing his hands would be arousing if not for-- “As I thought, dry as the sands of Dorne. Would you like me to shove my cock in you like this? I didn’t take you for someone that finds virtue in this particular sort of self-flagellation.” 

“There is always pain the first time.” She shifted on top of him, clearly uncomfortable but stubbornly refusing to move away. “I’m not as innocent as that. My Septa made certain I understood there would be pain and blood. I have experienced both before, and from weapons deadlier than what lies between your legs.” 

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll fuck you, but only if I can make you come.” Her eyes widened so far he thought they might fall out of her head. She opened her mouth, but he spoke before she could. “It will make it easier for you, and it will assure me that you aren’t suffering on my cock while thinking of Lady Stark the entire time. That particular thought doesn’t excite me overmuch.”

“You can’t--”

“Unbind my hands and I’ll _show_ you what I can and cannot manage.”

“No,” she said shortly. “You are not to be trusted with such freedoms.”

“Am I in any shape to run away?” he questioned acerbically. “Were you imagining my condition these past several days?” 

He could see the moment she decided against her better judgment. “Do not give me reason to cut you down.” 

He groaned in relief as soon as the ropes were slack enough that he could pull his hands free. Some deep-down part of him _was_ tempted to throw her off and run; the larger part of him wanted to show her what he was capable of with full range of motion. He lifted one of his hands, sucking his fore and middle fingers into his mouth before sliding them between the lips of her cunt. She made a soft, aborted noise, twitching against his fingertips. He placed his free hand on her thigh, massaging the tense muscle as he slowly explored the hills and valleys of her, watching her face carefully for the moment he found a spot that made her pupils spread through the shocking blue of her eyes. 

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, more an expression than a sound. 

He knew the smirk on his face was insolent, but he didn’t bother to feign modesty as he stroked, paying particular mind to that lovely little bud that made her sink her teeth into her lip in an effort to prevent the escape of the noises he could see hitching her chest. His cock took a similar interest as her own wetness slicked his fingers; he knew the moment she felt it too, the muscle of her thigh twitching against the touch. 

By the time she was moving with his touch instead of bracing herself not to pull away, the brush of fabric against him was nearly painful, and the whimper when he slipped two fingers into her nearly unmanned him. His touch was frantic. Desperation to fulfill his own condition of this act was the only thing keeping him from shoving his pants down and thrusting into her. It was the same desperation that had him reaching beneath her tunic to palm at the bare swell of her breast, thumb coaxing the nipple to a hard peak. He tugged on it gently and she cried out, her body clenching around his fingers, a look of such startled pleasure on her face that he felt an absurd amount of pride and warmth. . 

She rocked against him, riding out the waves of pleasure, finally giving in to the urge to close her eyes as she calmed in fits. When her eyes opened again, the look in them was like being struck by lightning. He grabbed the laces of his breeches and asked, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” She nodded and rose up on her knees so he could push his smallclothes down far enough to free his cock. 

In a strange way, he felt as nervous as a maiden. The only woman he’d ever known was his sister, and now, after an entire adulthood spent in devotion to her, he was about to fuck another woman. He was about to take the maidenhead of another highborn lady, even if the lady in question pretended she was anything but. 

He slid into Brienne, her cunt all but strangling his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to the Crone for patience. He fumbled for her clit, his hand trembling while he fucked nto her with short, sharp thrusts, waiting for her body to welcome him instead of fighting the intrusion. He felt the embarrassing urge to cry out when he was at last sheathed within her fully, held in the warmth and strength of her body. 

He would have loved to have had the presence of mind to make this as good for her as his hand alone, but the bone-deep relief of fulfilling the curse’s purpose made him insensible to all but the pleasure singing down his spine and pooling in his groin. He congratulated himself for managing to pull out before he came, spilling on her thigh instead of within.

Still boneless with long-awaited pleasure and panting heavily, he said, “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” She was still astride him, her hands braced on his chest. 

He found he was unable to take his hands from her, perhaps soothing himself more than her with his gentle stroking along her flank and hips. “It can be much better.”

“This wasn’t about--you needn’t--” He opened his eyes slowly, taking in the discomfort on her face. “This was only so that you wouldn’t die.” She lifted herself from him, her legs shaking, her hand going the smear of his seed on her thighs. She met his eyes once more. “Don’t leave. I will--”

He waved her away. “Go clean yourself. It will be awhile before I feel like moving again.”

\--

**Part Three: A Little of What You Fancy Doesn’t Do Much Good**

**__** _In the years that followed, the Knight would always wonder how his fate was changed by being the prisoner of the Maiden and not some lesser man or woman. If he had been the prisoner of someone less honorable, less caring, he would be dead. In that respect, he was thankful to be her captive._

_But only in that respect._

_Truly._

For a blissful fortnight, Jaime thought perhaps the curse was flawed enough it wouldn’t notice where exactly his seed landed. 

He was, to put it mildly, incorrect. 

He waited until it was nearly too late, until they were laid out on the hard ground after another brutal day of walking over rough terrain to ask. “How far are we from King’s Landing?”

“At least another turn of the moon by my estimation,” she said. 

“Ah.” He felt bad about fucking her when it hadn’t even fulfilled the curse, but risking her with what he _knew_ would break it was beyond consideration. A shame, really. He hoped she would still find a way to save Sansa. It would upset her greatly to fail--and why that should matter to him wasn’t worth pondering. After all, death was imminent. 

“I’m not certain how to say this, and you should know it was through no fault of your own, but I fear the curse is yet unlifted. I do apologize for--”

“What do you _mean,_ the curse is not lifted?” The wench sounded positively furious. “You--you--”

“I’m sure it won’t soothe your feelings,” he interrupted her babbling, “but I truly hoped it would work.”

“You _hoped_.” He looked over to see her braced on one elbow, shaking her head, her eyebrows furrowed so deeply they nearly met in the middle. “You said this was not the first time, that you--”

“I have,” he said. “It seems the curse is _very_ specific about what does and does not constitute an attempt to plant my seed.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jaime sighed deeply. Septas truly did their charges a disservice. At least young men were expected to know how to prevent a child, if they so chose. There was nothing for it but to educate her. 

“I did not spill inside you,” he said, kindly, if he were to be the judge. “I can’t get a child on you if I don’t.” 

She was silent, looking at him in that soft, searching way that made him feel rather exposed. 

“You said the curse’s purpose was an heir,” she finally said, so quietly he could barely hear her. “Why wouldn’t you--”

“Because I won’t ruin you further,” he spat. “I cannot marry you. The best I could do would be to send you back to your father in disgrace with a belly full of babe and a pocket full of gold. And I certainly won’t have a bastard carrying the surname Storm.” He snorted. “Gods forbid someone think my son or daughter is some Stormlands cast-off.” 

“I’ve already said I won’t let you die.”

“Then it appears we’re at an impasse. You won’t let me die and I won’t risk a child. How very unlike us to be so at odds.”

He had just fallen into a restful place where the pain almost couldn’t reach him when the wench spoke again.

“I’ve known married women,” she said slowly. “Perhaps not as friends, but I’ve observed the women near me, even my own Septa told me--” she paused as if gathering her courage. “It is well known even to unmarried women that it may take months after marriage to conceive. For some, it can take years, to my understanding.”

“And what shall you do if you prove to be an unlucky one for whom it happens the first time?” he asked, frustrated beyond belief, both from how badly he wanted the relief and how godsdamned stubborn she was. 

“There are also many women that lose the babe before it quickens,” she countered.

“And if you prove to be unlucky enough that you must give birth to a child cursed to be my bastard, what then?” he asked. 

“Then my father will declare it legitimate, and I will become derided for falling pregnant by some nameless soldier in one of the many camps I’ve bedded down in,” she said with some finality. “Or perhaps it will shock people that I am woman enough to have a child, and they will give me some respite, at least for a short enough time I can leave once more.” He found himself with nothing left within except a burning need for release; if it must be within his captor, he was beyond caring. Taking his silence for denial, she said, “There is nothing certain in these times, nothing except that you will die if we do not.” 

There it was: the one argument he could not counter. 

“Very well,” he said, furious. Furious at the curse and that even in this he wasn’t given a true choice. “But I shan’t give you a penny for any bastard that results, and I will never claim it.” 

“All the better for the child, to be frank,” she said. “I would think any child of mine would be a target for mockery. Better not to add being the by-blow of the Kingslayer.”

Bile rose in his throat. “One more condition.”

“Yes?”

“You must call me by my name,” he said, his pulse thrumming, waiting for her denial. 

He would swear he could hear a shaking breath before she said, “And you must call me by mine.”

“Brienne.” The name felt heavy on his tongue, the full weight of consent resting on those seven letters. 

“Jaime.” 

He knew he wasn’t imagining the soft tremor in her voice. The silence felt eternal before the shockingly loud noise of her armor being removed sang out, only to be captured by the canopy of branches above. After a time, her soft footfalls closed the narrow distance between them, each of them seeming to jolt his heart to an even faster rhythm. She knelt astride him.

“The same as before?” she asked, her hands hovering over the laces of his breeches. 

“My hands first, if you will.” He held them out to her and she unbound the rope from his wrists. He reached for her laces this time. 

The way they touched felt almost reverent. There was something in knowing that they both acknowledged the danger in their joining, in the saving of his life. It was all laid bare and they chose, _she chose_ , to save him anyway. Whether it was for her vows or not, she chose his life. 

He slipped his hand into her breeches, his fingers pressing past the thatch of coarse hair to find her already slick. She whimpered, her hips stuttering in an aborted roll into his touch. 

“If we’re to do this,” he murmured, “you may as well enjoy yourself. Despite what the Septas say, there’s no virtue in suffering, least of all in this.”

She bit down on her lower lip, but she moved with him as he stroked this time, sucking in a sharp gasp when he pressed two fingers into her. He smiled when she closed her eyes and braced her hands on his chest, but he needed more, and he was so far gone, he just wanted it to be over. He wanted to be rid of the burning want in his veins and the ache in his bones. 

He used his other hand to unlace himself; her eyes opened the moment she felt his movements. She took his wrist, tugged it out of her breeches and stood. For a brief, horrifying moment, he thought she would say no. 

Instead, she held his gaze and shoved both the breeches and small clothes down her legs. He wanted her to remove her tunic, but he wouldn’t say it aloud, and he tried to believe it was simply the heat of desire and nothing more that made him want to suck one of her nipples between his teeth until it pebbled against his lips. 

When she knelt over him again, she gripped her own thighs and wriggled while he positioned his cock. He pulled her down to him; she whimpered, and he groaned like a man dying. Her cunt was an embrace like he’d never felt, the relief of being inside of her--there weren’t words for it, there was only the feeling and movement, the sound of her moans, and the way they deepened when he stroked her in time with his thrusts.

He held on until she choked back a cry as she came. He followed, and the relief--it went beyond the normal joy of release. He felt as if he was barely tethered to his own body, as if he had topped over the edge of a cliff and was soaring for that brief moment before impact. Irrationally, he wanted to pull her down to him. He wanted the warmth of her body against his, the feel of their slicked skin sliding together; he wanted the weight of her to anchor him as he slowly came back to the reality of their situation. 

And then she was gone and he was alone and he hated his need for more and his weakness in wanting it. 

\--

**Part 4: Half the Truth is Often a Whole Lie**

_And so the Maiden saved the Knight. She would always say it was naught more than anyone would do, but he knew different. Not many would give up so much to save the life of a man they loathed, regardless of their promises to their liege. Surely no one would expect the Maiden to give her body to a man she held prisoner. After all, she is named the Maiden for a reason._

_In truth, the Knight believed her to be far more deserving of knighthood than he, if only the lawmakers and rulers would agree that women could be so honorable and duty-bound._

_Perhaps though, in time, she would be given her due._

It seemed a queer notion that they would somehow be unable to speak to one another after, but Brienne withdrew, an unchanging maudlin expression on her face. He missed her scowling and red cheeks and mulish jaw. He hated this shadow of the woman who had manhandled him for weeks. They spent days with little more than the barest of words passing between them, and while it was perhaps no different than it was at the start of the journey, he found it profoundly unsettling.

King’s Landing loomed over them like a specter, the promise of what was waiting behind the gates for them almost too much to comprehend. He would miss her: stubborn and ugly though she may be, she had become _important_. It was not merely a matter of her saving him. It was something more, something that felt both ephemeral and enduring. It was both terrifying and confusing.

Maybe that’s why he found himself choking on his own burden, or maybe he just wanted to comfort her in some strange way. If she _knew_ him, if she knew why he chose what he did, maybe she would be more secure in her decision to save his sorry soul. 

“Once upon a time,” he began. “There was a boy who dreamed of nothing more than being a knight for the history books.”

“What are you--”

“Please,” he said, hating how desperate he was to finish now he’d started. He waited for the small nod of assent before continuing. “The boy spent his every free moment training so that he could join his father’s army. The boy was lucky in a manner; he was given the chance to prove himself on the battlefield soon after his fifteenth name day. Prove himself he did, so much so that the man he revered the most knighted him for his efforts.”

He glanced over only briefly, curiosity getting the best of him. The expression on her face was one of dawning realization, he thought, and so he pushed on before he lost his nerve.

“Fewer than two namedays passed before the Knight made a promise, one that in many ways he would come to regret. He earned the highest honor in the land. He felt lucky that his King believed him worthy of such a position, but the Knight would soon learn the difference between a dream and the truth. 

“His King was not well, and it did not take the Knight long to realize as much. He saw many things that disturbed him. He had to do many things that made his stomach turn. Perhaps worse, there were many things he was not permitted to do, so many people he was not able to protect, but he knew his duty, and he had sworn to follow his King’s every order.”

Jaime took a deep breath, closing his eyes and swallowing back the bile and the urge to stop. 

“There was a rebellion. When the King realized that he would not win, he decided that he would kill everyone he could. He had a pyromancer place wildfire in every corner of the tunnels under the city. When the rebels were closing in, the King ordered his pyromancer to light the wildfire. The Knight knew this would destroy the entire city and every inhabitant. 

“He had a choice: duty or honor. He could either be dutiful to his King and fulfill the oaths he’d made, _or_ he could do the honorable thing and save half a million people. He had mere moments to make the choice. He chose honor. First he cut down the pyromancer, but the King would not stop. He kept screaming, ‘ _Burn them all_.’ The Knight did the only thing he could think to stop it. He slit his King’s throat.”

“ _Jaime_.” 

He looked at Brienne. Her chin was quavering, on her face an expression of--he didn’t quite think it was pity, but perhaps it was sympathy. 

“If what you’ve said is true…”

Jaime smiled wryly. “Some say there is at least a shred of truth in every fairytale.” 

“Who else has heard this tale?”

“Naught but you.”

Her eyes widened as she drew to a stop, turning to face him. “Why?”

He gazed at her steadily, needing her to see the resolution in his eyes more than he needed to protect himself. “Because it’s important to know that sometimes duty means sacrificing honor, and honor means sacrificing duty. It’s more rare than one might think that they align. You make your choices, you hope that you can live with them. It is easier to take the judgment of others when you believe you did right.” 

\--

There was one more night. One final evening spent beneath the stars alone, lying on uncomfortable earth with space between them for another body. He knew he couldn’t reach for her, but he couldn’t deny the urge. He wouldn’t allow himself to think on it too much. Loneliness and pain had strange effects on a man. 

He was drifting, not quite asleep, but not quite awake when she spoke. 

“It wasn’t what I thought it would be,” she said softly. 

“Hmm?” He blinked until he was focused more. “What wasn’t?”

“The--the _bedding_.” Her voice was strained, as if she was clenching her teeth through it. “It wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

“You thought of it often?”

“Most young women do,” she said defensively. “If only because their Septas are tasked with warning them of what awaits them in the marriage bed. It wasn’t nearly as painful or bloody as she told me.” 

“Gods, what did that woman tell you?”

“That my husband would only be able to perform his duties under the cover of darkness,” she whispers. “That I should expect no affection for him, merely enough attention to give him children. _All women are the same in the dark._ I was not the size I am now at the time.” 

Jaime did not expect the rage that suddenly whited out his vision. Perhaps there was some truth to the Septa’s words. He saw nothing but a homely woman with a body that rivaled those of brutes like the Clegane boys; but now that he knew her more, he knew the goodness of her soul, and the strength of her convictions, and the softness in her gaze. She would never be beautiful, but she deserved far more than the cruel attentions of a blackguard that only wanted her lands and her womb. 

“There are no guarantees in marriage,” he said slowly, “for anyone. But you are a strong enough woman, I believe you could make your lord husband regret his actions should he do something to displease you.”

Brienne snorted in surprise. He felt his own lips tilt up. “Women are not allowed to discipline their husbands.”

“Any man that marries simply for a woman’s lands must certainly be at the mercy of his lady wife,” he said, thinking he sounded rather reasonable, and not merely like he was comforting someone with empty words. “You are the future Evenstar, are you not?” 

She was silent for so long he wondered if he’d offended her somehow.

Finally, she said, “I am.”

“Well,” he nodded, if only to himself. “There you have it.” 

“I admit, I wish…”

“Are we truly not beyond hesitation at this point?” Jaime sighed. “Brienne, you know the only secret I’ve withheld from all but you. Surely, whatever you’ve to say is not more shocking.”

“I wish I could know softness in marriage,” she admitted so quietly he could barely hear. “The Starks were known across Westeros for their love for one another. Even now, it is plain how much she loved him. My father loved my mother so much that if it were not for me, I’m not sure he would have survived her death. If I can’t have love in my marriage, I wish I could at least have some measure of happiness instead of mere duty.”

He couldn’t offer her that. He couldn’t promise her that. _Most_ marriages were not loving ones, nor did they eventually grow to be love matches. His parents were by far the exception, not the rule, and his father had to defy everyone to marry Jaime’s mother. But perhaps he could offer her something softer and kinder than a rough tumble on a forest floor. 

“Come here,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Brienne, come here.”

Jaime watched the shape of her rise from the forest floor and close the short distance between them before kneeling beside him. He sat, tilting his head and looking at her. He wondered how long it would take the world to douse the light that still glowed in her eyes. He leaned toward her hesitantly, watched as her mouth went slack, her eyes wide with nervous surprise, and then he kissed her softly. A warm, gentle caress, his tongue just touching against her lower lip before tugging it with him as he moved away again. 

Her eyes fluttered open, her lashes as delicate and pale as dandelion fluff. She touched her fingers softly to her lips. 

“You might find kindness yet,” he said, and then before he could do something truly foolhardy, “Good night, Brienne.”

\--

_The (not quite a) Maiden returned the Knight to his home safely, only to discover that her liege lady’s daughters had disappeared many moons before. The Knight discovered his brother was accused of killing the king (the Knight’s son? nephew?). His brother begged The Knight to be his champion in a trial by battle. The Knight could not follow the Maiden on her quest to find the daughters, but even if he had wanted to (and he did, strangely), he could not leave his brother without him._

_And so, the Knight sent the Maiden away with a handsome horse, a purse heavy with coin, a declaration from the King giving her permission to carry out her orders, and a less-than-desirable squire. They thought never to see one another again._

_They were wrong._

**Part Five: Happily Ever After, Mostly**

_The Knight and the Not-Quite-A-Maiden were separated for many moons. She spent them on the hunt for Sansa Stark, only to find herself in the possession of the girl’s undead mother (a story for another day), while The Knight found himself following orders that left him feeling like the worst of men. If they spent an inordinate amount of time thinking of one another, and missing the other, it did not do to dwell upon it._

_But still, in the dark of the night, it was hard to deny that it seemed it would be easier if the other was there._

Jaime looked up at the sound of someone entering his tent, already aggrieved at yet another decision he didn’t want to make. What he saw made his stomach fall to the soles of his feet. _Brienne_. Brienne with a bandage that covered the entirety of one cheek, the suggestion of some gruesome wound peeking around the edge, and a bruise about her neck that spoke of things that made his hands turn cold 

“Jai--” she stopped herself and looked around. “Ser Jaime,” she amended, “you must come. Quickly. I found her. I found the girl.” 

“You found her?”

“Yes, but you must come quickly,” she said, panic woven in every word. “I have need of you.”

She was lying about something. What, he did not know. Nor, it seemed, did he care overmuch. It wasn’t until she was standing in front him, regardless of her appearance, that he suddenly knew the wrongness that had lived within him since he sent her away. He should have followed her then. He would follow her now. He would follow her anywhere. 

“Lyle,” he said, never taking his eyes from hers. “Saddle my horse.” 

He watched as relief collapsed her chest and lowered her shoulders. 

“Everyone,” he called over his shoulder, “leave us.” 

He still garnered enough respect that they all filed out dutifully. He went to her and touched her, as if to prove to himself she wasn’t a ghost. 

And then he kissed her, as softly as the touch of a rose petal, yet she whimpered anyway. 

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered against her mouth. 

She shook her head slightly. “No. It’s only that--it’s only--” 

She cut herself off by kissing him deeply, pressing his lips open and slipping her tongue inside, tasting him and holding him as if she needed this, needed him. He felt the same in every touch and in the way their bodies molded together after all this time. 

“Ser?” Lyle called through the tent, apparently warned by the others not to intrude. “I’ve got your horse.”

Jaime pulled away slowly, dragging out every second of the separation. “Come, let us away.”

\--

They hardly spoke on their hard and rough ride. When they finally stopped to bed down for the night, he had barely sat down his pack before he was stepping to her, his hand rising to tug down the collar of her tunic so the rope burns were plainly visible. He’d seen enough hanged men in his day to well know the sight. 

“What happened to you?” he asked, perhaps too sharply, judging by the way Brienne flinched away from him. 

“I could ask the same of you,” she said, reaching for the golden hand hanging heavily at his side.

He swallowed thickly, allowing her to lift the hand and cradle it with her own. “Tyrion was accused of poisoning Joffrey. He asked that I fight for his life. I could hardly say no. I managed to fell the Mountain, but I did lose my only worth for the effort.” He attempted a smile, but it was a wan thing. 

Her fingers traced over the intricate carvings with something approaching reverence. 

“Not your only worth,” she said.

Her soft words lodged in his throat, and he barely resisted the urge to lean into her. 

Instead, he raised a hand to her cheek, lightly tracing the edges of her bandage. “And you?”

She covered his hand with her own. “The Brave Companions.” She looked down at her feet. “Biter’s reputation is well-earned.”

“And this?” He trailed a finger along the rope burns. 

She hissed and flinched. “I was captured. I--” her eyes flicked up to catch his gaze before darting away again. “I promised to complete a task for them in exchange for Podrick’s life.” 

“What task?” Jaime asked, the icy strings of suspicion twisting through his body.

He felt Brienne swallow heavily before she shook her head. “It’s not important.”

She was a shit liar. Too honest, too earnest, too honorable to ever be convincing. 

“It was not important, and yet they would kill you for it?” He questioned, an eyebrow lifted even as her eyes were still cast down.

She closed them and took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, the air gusting over his shoulder. Finally, she looked at him. “Please. I will explain in time, but--”

He could well read the tumult in her expression, the pleading in her eyes. Every instinct within him whispered to press harder, to break her wall of silence. He knew, somehow, that it was something horrible, perhaps for him, if she was so desperate to keep it secret. But she was here, and she was alive; apparently, in spite of all odds. They were both alive and she was here. 

She was here. 

He leaned in then, moving his hand to cup the back of her neck and moving in to kiss her once more. Deeply this time, the kind of searching, consuming kiss that promises more to come.

“What are you doing?”

He could hear the beating of his heart in his ears. “I want--” he didn’t even know how he wanted to say it. He didn’t want to _fuck_ her. He wanted to… He wanted-- “I want _you_.”

Her chest was rising and falling like she’d just run the length of the Wall, but she lifted her chin, a certainty in the line of her job. “Then we are at an accord.”

He would laugh, if he weren’t somehow nervous. He was scared of touching someone and learning how to please a woman with only one hand; scared to know her reaction to being touched by his false hand. He didn’t imagine she was the sort to care, but he was, and therefore he had to fear the rejection and repulsion that might await. 

She didn’t give him time to work up his courage. She moved forward, capturing his mouth in the sort of kiss that _hurt_ in his chest, as if his entire soul yearned to be near her. The undressed one another slowly, and he kissed her, he kissed her, he kissed her. Her face, her unmarred cheek, her jaw and neck, the line of her collarbone, the tip of each breast and every inch below until he was between her thighs, savoring the chance to draw her to a gentle climax.

She was still curving toward him, her muscles taut when he slid back up her body, his cock pressed against her still fluttering cunt. 

“Are you sure?” He asked against her shoulder, planting an open-mouthed kiss and tasting the salty sweat that glistened on her skin. 

“Yes,” she said, continuing to murmur until he pushed inside.

He was certain he’d never fucked anyone with the same softness or regard, the gentle, quiet joining of their bodies as if they had all the time in the world, as if this would be the last time and they meant to savor it. 

He hoped it would not be the last time. She sighed and moaned, moving with him, pulling him deeper with each thrust until he wasn’t sure where he ended and she began. Later, he would regret not tugging her with him over the edge, but when he pulled out to spill on the ground beneath them, he rested his head on her breast and did nothing more than listen to the rabbit-fast beating of her heart, and held onto the way it echoed in his ears. 

“Will you not tell me?” He asked softly, planting another open-mouthed kiss on her breast as he lifted himself away from her. 

Her stomach expanded in a sharp, anxious breath. Her chin quavered, an expression he remembered all too well. 

“I will tell you when I can,” she said, one of her hands carding through his sweat-damp hair. “Trust me, Jaime. No matter what, you must trust me.”

He looked at her a long while, the tortured expression, but the yearning still there. He felt the way she held him so softly and firmly, more tender than anyone in memory. He remembered her face when he told her his darkest secret. There was no one else he would trust so blindly, but he could trust her. Somehow, he just knew it.

_And so the Knight followed his Lady into the unknown. They did not live happily ever after, for no one could truly live in happiness forever, but even in the darkest of times, they found the light in each other._


End file.
